


thousands to prophecy failure

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mentioned Others - Freeform, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Self-Esteem Issues, Sickfic, Though He Doesn't Appear, Vomiting, janus: please stop, particularly remus, roman: haha what if i tied my self-worth to my productivity haha, roman: jk.... unless?, the ending is so fluffy my god
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:29:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24355843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it?When Thomas experiences creative burn-out, he struggles with a few days of unproductivity. When Roman experiences creative burn-out, he gets sick. And it's fine, really; he'll suffer through it if it means that he can come up with ideas for Thomas. That's all that matters, right?Luckily, there are others who disagree with him.
Relationships: Creativity | Roman "Princey" Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 32
Kudos: 353





	thousands to prophecy failure

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "It Couldn't Be Done" by Edgar Albert Guest.
> 
> This is set in some nebulous post-SvS Redux future, in which everything is better and they're all mostly friends, because why not?

It doesn’t come on suddenly. So really, Roman has no excuse.

It starts with chills running up and down his spine, shooting into his limbs and setting his fingers to trembling. He glares at his hand and decides to press on, decides to keep going, because he has come up with so many ideas but none of them seem quite good enough, quite able to hold up under the inevitable criticism of the others. He keeps going, keeps creating, and ignores the way his body begins to ache.

None of it is good enough, and he hates it all, because with every failed idea, he’s failing Thomas, is disappointing Thomas.

 _Magnifying_ , Logan’s voice whispers in his head, and he should probably pay attention, but Logan’s voice is also whispering things like, _Illogical and unrealistic,_ and, _Really, Roman, you couldn’t come up with anything that makes more sense than this?_ And it’s joining other imagined slights, joining the image of Patton’s face turning away from him and Virgil’s dark glower, Janus’ smooth, mocking laugh and Remus’ smile looming out of the darkness.

He needs to come up with something good. But the words are slipping away from him, slipping away even as his body trembles harder and his forehead beads with sweat, and he can’t think of anything at all. He starts and stops in fits, and he scribbles out half-baked ideas only to crumple them up and throw them in the wastepaper basket moments later. He began this morning so well, so upbeat and optimistic, ready to tackle the day and let the creativity flow like it has for the past week, so why is this happening now?

He keeps trying. But one moment, he’s trying, and the next, his pencil is slipping from his grasp.

He stares at it. It lies there, innocuous, on top of a blank piece of paper. He reaches for it, but his vision swims, and he is hit with a wave of dizziness even as his entire body shudders. 

He should have stopped before it came to this point.

But he needed to come up with something good. Still needs. Needs to push through, so he reaches for the pencil again, manages to pick it up, but he’s barely set the tip to paper before his stomach rebels against him. He lurches to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom and vomits into the sink, gripping the counter in order to stay upright. He turns on the tap to wash it all down; he skipped breakfast this morning, so eager to get to work was he, and so it’s more bile than anything else. He wipes his mouth and looks up at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks terrible, his skin shining and flushed, his eyes bright and glazed. He ignored the warning signs, and now the fever has set in, and he can’t possibly work like this, can barely even string a coherent thought together, but he has to, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he need to keep working, to come up with something good, something that he can share with the others without shame, something that they will like, so that they will tell him he did a _good job, Roman, we’re proud of you_ , except they don’t usually tell him that even when he does do a good job, so what exactly is the point?

No, wait, the point is--

The point is Thomas, isn’t it? He needs something good for Thomas, and it doesn’t matter if the others don’t praise him so long as it helps Thomas follow his dreams, succeed in life, be who he wants to be--

Does Thomas even like him, though? He’s not sure. His brain is hazy, muddled, dark. He can’t remember.

He needs to keep working. He knows that much. Needs to keep working, even though he feels lightheaded, unsteady, even though his empty stomach is performing flips and twirls and the very thought of moving makes nausea rise again.

He trudges out of his bathroom, intent on making it to his desk, but then, the floor rises up in front of him. He barely feels the impact, though the breath is knocked out of his lungs in a wheezing gasp, and it’s harder than it should be to draw it back in. He takes a moment to realize where he is-- the floor, cold and hard and hardly the place for a prince to be-- before heaving himself up, but that doesn’t quite work, because all the strength seems to have been drained from his limbs, so he collapses back and lies there for a little while. Breathing.

The world swims. He pushes himself onto his back, eventually, and the ceiling wheels above him, all his fairy lights spinning and twirling. He raises up a shaking hand, but they bob just out of his grasp. And it’s sad, because he just wants to touch them, just wants someone to touch him, and his skin is too hot and too cold by turns and he’s so uncomfortable so he just lies here and he thinks he might be crying but he can’t stop and he can’t get up.

He needs to keep working. The longer he lies here, the more of a failure he is.

But he can’t get up.

Time passes, he thinks. Nausea crashes over him in waves, though he doesn’t throw up again. He might sleep at some point, but his dreams are troubled, full of darkness and laughter and eyes, all looking at him, all pointing at him, and he tries to run but he can’t escape them because no matter how fast he goes, the ground slips out from underneath his feet and he falls, falls, falls.

Someone knocks at the door. He turns his head to look. Someone asks after him. His throat is too dry to do anything but croak, and the door is too far to reach. So whoever it is leaves, and he is left with the spinning fairy lights and the bad dreams that bleed into waking, and he is hit with the sudden surety that there is someone in the corner of the room, staring at him.

He wants to get away. Wants them to stop looking. He struggles to sit up, wide-eyed and scared and shaking as they keep watching him, unblinking, and he doesn’t know their face, but those eyes are his brother’s, he’s sure, bright and gleaming with malice, so either Remus is here or something else has stolen his eyes and he doesn’t know which is worse.

He struggles to sit up, but he fails, collapsing backward and coughing, coughing until he thinks he’s about to literally cough up his lungs. The fit passes, and he curls into himself on the floor, and he thinks he cries a little bit more. Reality drops in and out of focus, hazy images dancing before his eyes, and he can’t even begin to make sense of any of it, and his head pounds.

He sleeps, and then wakes again, and sleeps, and wakes, and then, there are hands on him, lifting him, and he gasps, striking out, because what if the thing is back, the thing with Remus’ eyes, taking him away? He struggles, but to no avail, and only seconds pass before he is dumped on something soft. He cracks his eyes open and sees-- his bed? He’s on his bed. There is a figure moving in the room, too blurry to make out, and he opens his mouth to ask who’s there, but all that escapes his mouth is a weak groan.

The figure stops, turning toward him, and then approaches, reaching for him. He flinches back, but the figure is relentless, placing a hand on his forehead. The hand doesn’t feel like a hand, though. It feels like cloth, like soft cotton, and that doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Easy now,” the figure says, and their voice is smooth and familiar, and he thinks he should recognize it, but its identity slips from his mind, like trying to hold on to smoke. “You’ve done quite a number on yourself, this time.”

He can’t figure out what they mean. But then, it strikes him, a bolt out of the blue: he needs to work. He has work to finish, or else Thomas will be disappointed in him, and the dread of that happening is enough to give him the strength to move, to start to get out of bed.

But the figure holds him down. And he fights, he tries, but he is too weak, and he has to lie back against the bed again, gasping and humiliated. He needs to work; doesn’t this person know that?

“The only thing you need to do right now is rest,” the figure says, pushing him against the pillows. He wants to keep fighting, really, he does, but the pillows are so soft, and then the figure covers him with a blanket, and he has no chance at all against that.

His dreams are uneasy, still, full of lights and sounds and colors he doesn’t understand. His brother is there again, though whether he is friend or foe, he cannot tell. He has never been able to tell. He wakes panting, and there is someone sitting on his bed, hovering over him, their face just beyond recognition.

“Here,” they say, and hold something in front of his face. A water glass, he realizes, and with that comes the realization that he is so, so thirsty. The person helps him tilt his head upright and holds the glass to his lips, and he gulps the water down, almost choking in his eagerness. They take the water away too soon, and he whimpers a complaint, but they hold fast in their denial.

“Too much at once will make you sick,” they say, and pause. “Well. Sicker, I suppose.”

The words don’t quite make sense, don’t quite resolve into meaning in his head. But he decides that he likes the sound of their voice. It is cool and comforting, a balm to the heat that rages through his mind.

They laugh. “Thank you,” they say. “Get some more rest, Roman.”

That sounds like a good idea. Only, not, because isn’t there something he’s supposed to be doing?

“Yes,” they say. “Resting.”

No, that’s not it, he’s sure of it. In fact, he’s fairly certain that he’s supposed to be working on something. Something for Thomas? He needs to have an idea for Thomas. That’s it.

“You’ve already had plenty of ideas for Thomas,” they tell him. “That’s why you’re sick. You push yourself too hard.”

Alright, he is absolutely certain that at least part of that is a lie.

“Oh, I so want to argue this with you right now. You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Besides, even if that’s right and he has had plenty of ideas already, none of them were any good. That was the point. It doesn’t matter how many ideas he has if none of them are good enough, and he distinctly remembers an overflowing wastepaper basket, spilling over with all of his failures, all of his broken attempts at creating something that will pass muster.

They sigh, then, and he wonders if he’s done something wrong. He feels so very tired.

“You haven’t,” they say. “And that is the whole truth.” 

He is fading back into sleep, and it feels like he’s falling. He’s not sure if he imagines the kiss to his forehead, or the fingers that lightly stroke his hair. He hopes not. It’s all soft and cool and sweet, and he would very much like to be touched like that again.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. It feels like no time at all before he opens his eyes, his head pounding, and sees Janus sitting by his bedside, flipping through the pages of a book. It’s an utterly incongruous sight; he doesn’t think Janus has ever been in his room before, or at least, not that he can remember. He might be forgetting something; his head feels fuzzy, his thoughts disordered and confused and feverish, and he feels as though he is burning up.

That would be the fever, probably.

“J’nus?” he rasps, and Janus jerks, snapping his book shut. He glances over, and Roman’s vision is a bit blurry, but he can see the way his eyes widen.

“Roman,” he says, scooting his chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“‘M hot,” he says. He pauses, considering. “Head h’rts. Back aches. Why’re you h’re?”

Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”

Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it? He knows that illness makes Virgil anxious, and he can’t imagine that Logan would jump at the chance to play nurse, but why not Patton? Unless it has been Patton, and Janus is standing in while he takes a break.

His head hurts so much.

He must be making a face, because Janus frowns. “If you’d rather someone else,” he says, voice unreadable, “I’d be happy to get Patton.”

For some reason, that thought is just about unbearable. He doesn’t want Janus to leave. In fact, he rather wants Janus to be closer to him than he is right now.

“No,” he says, and works his arm free from the covers. It’s harder than it should be; the limb feels unaccountably heavy. But he manages it, and makes a grabby hand in Janus’ direction. Janus stares at it, and then sits on the edge of the bed, hesitant. It’s odd. Should Janus be hesitant? He’s pretty sure that’s weird. But that’s fine; Janus can be weird as long as he stays.

He stares at his face, at the frown twisting his lips, at the furrow between his brows. His hat is missing, and that’s definitely part of what’s weird, because it’s left his hair messy and sticking out in all kinds of directions, almost like he’s been running his hand through it, though Roman has no idea why he’d be doing that when he usually takes so much pride in being put together. He looks tired too, like he’s been awake for a while; his eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep bags beneath them. Roman finds himself staring at the left one, yellow and slit, and from there, his gaze travels across the left side of his face. His scales are lovely, green-gold, and they appear as though they’re moving, rippling on his face, though Roman’s pretty sure now that they’re not, that the fever is cooking his brain and making him see things. 

“Hey,” he slurs, “c’mere.”

Janus frowns deeper, and that’s a bit funny, but he scoots closer, leaning in, like he thinks Roman needs to tell him something. He doesn’t. He just wants to touch.

He brings his hand up and starts trailing his fingers across his cheek. His scales are so, so smooth, so nice and cold under his fingertips, and he loves them so much.

“They’re very nice,” he says, enunciating as much as he can to make sure his point gets across. “Very pretty. You’re very pretty.”

Janus inhales, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wide, and Roman notices that his slit pupil has blown wider, rounder. There’s a word for that, but he can’t remember it. Also, his face is red. The right half, the human half, which also looks nice, but not as nice and pretty as the scaled half.

If his scales are cold, is the rest of him cold? Roman is very hot, hot like he’s full of lava instead of blood, like he’s burning from the inside out, and his thoughts are fuzzy, but this seems to make sense. He nods to himself, and then grabs at Janus’ arm, yanking him closer. Janus doesn’t move much, so he tries again.

“What are you doing?” Janus asks, sounding a bit strangled.

“Cuddling,” Roman informs him. “‘M hot, an’ you’re not. C’mon.” He tugs again, and this time, Janus moves closer. Slowly, though, as if he’s waiting for Roman to tell him to stop, which is ridiculous. He swings his legs into the bed and settles against the headboard, placing just a bit of distance between the two of them, but Roman is quick to fix that, snuggling against his side.

Janus makes a noise. Like a little squeak. It’s cute.

“You’re cute,” he mumbles, just to make sure he’s aware, and falls asleep again.

His dreams are restless, and he wakes up several more times to sip at water, and once to throw it all up over the side of the bed. He imagines castles falling and doors that won’t open and a dragon that glares down at him with golden eyes and tells him to sleep, that he’s safe. He fights dragons, usually, but he believes this one. It speaks with a voice that he knows he should not trust, but does all the same.

He wakes, and he is alone.

It takes his sluggish mind a moment to parse out why this is strange. His last clear memory is throwing up in the bathroom sink; the journey from there to here is foggy. He fell on the floor, and… made it to the bed, somehow. He is alone now, but someone was here, beside him. Someone comforting, someone safe, someone who should still be here. The memories dissipate when he tries to reach for them.

He levers himself into a sitting position, wincing at the weakness of his limbs. There is a dip in the mattress next to him, as well as a half-full glass of water on his nightstand, but his room is otherwise undisturbed. His gaze travels to his desk, messy and disordered, wastepaper basket overflowing, and he winces again.

So much for getting any work done. The whole mindscape has probably heard of his weakness by now. He sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his hand to his head as a wave of dizziness hits him. He has no idea how long it’s been, whether hours have passed or days. Most likely the latter; he feels as though an entire castle has collapsed on top of him.

Did he dream about that? He’s pretty sure he dreamed about that.

The door opens, then, and he looks up, startled. It is Janus who enters, a steaming bowl balanced in one hand as he closes the door behind him. It takes a moment for him to notice Roman looking at him, and Roman takes full advantage of that time to panic, because _why_ is Janus here? He could imagine anyone else being his caretaker, but not him. Sure, they’ve apologized to each other, fixed what was most obviously broken, but that does not mean that there is no tension between them, a hesitance to their interactions, a caution in the way they look at each other when they think the other won’t notice.

Roman has wanted to bridge that gap for some time now. But he has never known how.

Janus meets his eyes and visibly startles. His hand jerks, sloshing a bit of what Roman assumes to be soup onto the floor, and in the split second before his expression reverts to cool, blank professionalism, he makes a face of what Roman can only assume to be unadulterated relief, and Roman’s breath catches.

When was the last time someone looked at him like that?

“You’re awake, then,” Janus says, walking over and placing the soup on the nightstand. There is a chair next to the bed, and he sits in it, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his pants.

“Um, yeah,” Roman says. He licks his lips; his mouth is dry and his lips unbearably chapped. He must look a disaster. “How long--?”

“Three days,” Janus replies, and Roman blanches, because that long, really? He could be lying, of course, but there’s no reason to lie about this. So he’s likely telling the truth, which means he’s let Thomas down even worse than he thought. That realization makes him want to shrivel up and die, just a little bit.

“Well,” he says, trying for his characteristic bravado and not quite finding it. His voice trembles, and as annoying as it is, he can’t smooth it over. “I suppose you got drafted into playing nursemaid. I apologize for that. I’m sure you--”

“I didn’t get drafted into anything,” Janus says, his voice sharp, but infuriatingly sincere. “I’m the one who came in and found you.”

He pauses. “Ah,” he says eventually, because how else is he supposed to respond to that? He vaguely remembers being unable to make it to the bed, spending what must have been hours on the floor before… well. He doesn’t remember being transferred to the bed, but it must have happened, and it must have been Janus who did it. Must have been Janus who picked him up, held him against his chest and carried him to his soft mattress, and he should probably derail this train of thought because it’s definitely making him blush, and he really hopes he can blame it on any lingering fever--

“We’ve had this discussion before, Roman,” Janus says, his voice just as sharp. There is something else there, too, something that sounds almost like worry. But it can’t be worry; why would Janus be worried about him? “You know very well how creative burn-out affects you. You need to be taking better care of yourself.”

Roman looks away, looks past him and to his desk, cluttered with papers and yet not a single good idea among them. Of course, he should head off burn-out before it happens, because it leaves both him and Thomas in a worse position than they started in. But he thought he could push through it, thought that just another few minutes would bring the inspiration he sought.

“Right,” he says quietly. “I’ll do better next time.”

To his surprise, Janus groans, and he looks over to see that he’s covering his face with one hand. One gloved hand, and another memory floats back to him, of a hand touching his forehead, carding through his hair.

“It’s not about doing better,” Janus says. “It’s about you needing to not make yourself sick, and not because it means you’ll miss work. You deserve to take care of yourself. It seems that you’re the only one in the mindscape that doesn’t understand that.”

He blinks. “I just don’t want to disappoint--” he tries, but Janus doesn’t let him finish.

“Oh, yes, because everyone is _so_ disappointed in you,” he says. “Because no one is worried out of their minds that you pushed yourself into days of illness. Because absolutely no one cares about you for you and not the ideas you provide, which, I might add, are certainly just as bad as you think they are and not worthy of being used at all.” He takes his hand from his face and glares. “Really, Roman. How many times will it take for you to get it through your thick skull that just maybe, we all love you and want you to be well?”

There is so much to unpack there. But for some reason, Roman’s mind is stalling on one phrase.

“You… love me?” he asks weakly, because if he’s not mistaken, Janus said, _we all_ , which would imply that he’s including himself in that, but that simply doesn’t make any sense at all.

How, after everything he’s said and done, could Janus care for him?

Janus stares at him, and then scoots his chair closer, so that their knees knock against each other. Roman is expecting denial, or a lengthy explanation of some sort, but instead, Janus gathers up both of his hands in his.

“Yes,” he says simply, and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. All of the breath escapes Roman’s lungs, but Janus doesn’t stop there. He plants one on Roman’s cheek next, and then the other, and Roman thinks his heart might beat right out of his chest. Perhaps he’s still feverish, still dreaming, still hallucinating, and perhaps he’ll wake up to find an empty room and a cold bed, or will wake up to find that he is still on the floor and none of this was real at all.

Then, Janus captures his lips, and he forgets to think. It’s soft and slow and sweet, barely more than a graze, barely long enough for him to respond at all. He should say something, he thinks, when Janus pulls back, but his mouth has forgotten how to make sounds, apparently.

“Forgive me if I misinterpreted,” Janus says, sounding a bit hoarse. “But you, uh. Said my scales were pretty.” A blush has risen on his right cheek. Roman doesn’t think he could feel any more mortified.

“Oh, Odin’s beard,” he moans. “I said that out loud?”

Because he really wouldn’t put it past himself, feverish and delusional, to admit something that he’s thought many times before, thought and never intended to reveal. And for a moment, he fears he’s said the wrong thing, that Janus will mistake his meaning, will back off when that is absolutely the last thing he wants, once he gets past his embarrassment. But then, Janus laughs.

“Oh, no, not at all,” he says. “Just like you didn’t call me cute, or tug me in to cuddle with you.”

Oh, that’s… ringing a bell, now that he thinks about it. Great. Wonderful. Very princely behavior.

But then, Janus kisses him again, just like the first, and he forgets to feel upset with himself, if it has led to this.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Janus murmurs, “but I’d like to make sure you take care of yourself, if you’ll allow me.” He pulls away a bit, just enough to look into Roman’s eyes. “You are so worthy of love. And you’re allowed to take things that you want.”

And Roman feels so very warm inside. He doesn’t think it’s the fever anymore; it’s like a sun, finally rising after a long night, like flowers blooming in the meadow now that spring has come at last.

Perhaps ideas will come later. And perhaps that’s not a bad thing.

“Well, if that’s so,” he says, and leans in to kiss Janus himself.

**Author's Note:**

> I am a simple person with simple needs, and what I needed was Roman being taken care of and told that he has value. And also, him telling Janus that his scales are pretty.
> 
> I'm @whenisitenoughtrees on tumblr, if you'd ever like to come scream with me!


End file.
